With a dramatic gesture, as one would say, "I am here!" he pushed back his Panama hat. With an unsteady finger he pointed, as it was drawn dripping across the deck, at the stern hawser. "You see that rope?" he demanded. "Soon as that rope hit the water I knocked off work. S'long as you was in Valencia--me, on the job. Now, _you_ can't go back, _I_ can't go back. Why further dissim'lation? _Who am I?_" His condition seemed to preclude the possibility of his knowing who he was, so I told him. He sneered as I have seen men sneer only in melodrama. "Oh, of course," he muttered. "Oh, of course." He lurched toward me indignantly. "You know perfec'ly well Jones is not my name. You know perfec'ly well who I am." "My dear sir," I said, "I don't know anything about you, except that you are a damned nuisance." He swayed from me, pained and surprised. Apparently he was upon an outbreak of tears. "Proud," he murmured, "_and_ haughty. Proud and haughty to the last." I never have understood why an intoxicated man feels the climax of insult is to hurl at you your name. Perhaps because he knows it is the one charge you cannot deny. But invariably before you escape, as though assured the words will cover your retreat with shame, he throws at you your full title. Jones did this. Slowly and mercilessly he repeated, "Mr.--George--Morgan--Crosby. Of Harvard," he added. "Proud and haughty to the last." He then embraced a passing steward, and demanded to be informed why the ship rolled. He never knew a ship to roll as our ship rolled. "Perfec'ly satisfact'ry ocean, but ship--rolling like a stone-breaker. Take me some place in the ship where this ship don't roll." The steward led him away. When he had dropped the local pilot the captain beckoned me to the bridge. "I saw you talking to Mr. Schnitzel," he said. "He's a little under the weather. He has too light a head for liquors." I agreed that he had a light head, and said I understood his name was Jones. "That's what I wanted to tell you," said the captain. "His name is Schnitzel. He used to work for the Nitrate Trust in New York. Then he came down here as an agent. He's a good boy not to tell things to. Understand? Sometimes I carry him under one name, and the next voyage under another. The purser and he fix it up between 'em. It pleases him, and it don't hurt anybody else, so long as I tell them about it. I don't know who he's working for now," he went on, "but I know he's not with the Nitrate Company any more. He sold them out." "How could he?" I asked. "He's only a boy."